


all i wanna do is go home with you (but i know i'm out of my mind)

by wishie



Series: say it, just say it [1]
Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Pennywise (IT), Boys Kissing, Coming Out, Coming of Age, Confessions, Drugs, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, F/M, Fluff, Gay Male Character, Happy Ending, Internal Conflict, M/M, Making Out, Minor Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Minor Bill Denbrough/Stanley Uris, Sharing a Bed, Underage Drinking, Underage Smoking, if you squint i guess honestly it could be set anytime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-19
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2019-03-21 04:11:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13732878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wishie/pseuds/wishie
Summary: There’s something about the gleam in Richie’s eyes that makes Eddie very uneasy. Maybe it’s their proximity, the relative darkness of their surroundings, but the way Richie is looking at him makes his skin itch. The places where Richie’s fingers brush against his arm burn. Eddie closes his eyes and falls.





	all i wanna do is go home with you (but i know i'm out of my mind)

**Author's Note:**

> i said i was going to write a reddie fic and it grew into this monster. here it is, enjoy
> 
> many thanks to @killproof and rhys for offering critique even when i was freaking out at eleven pm about random plot points

“Would you swallow a tiny two-inch man for a hundred million dollars?” Richie asks. He’s fiddling with a pencil, tapping it on his thigh in a way that makes Eddie twitch. The rest of the Losers try not to make eye contact; it’s Tuesday morning, which means they’re all finishing last-minute homework, and no one really wants to humor Richie. Except for—

“I would not,” Ben says, ever the obliging friend.

Richie beams at him. “My portly friend,” he says, ignoring the way Ben pulls his shoulders up to his ears, “Do you know how much money one-hundred million dollars is?”

“How much is it?” Bev asks, fixing Richie with the patient gaze one might ascribe to a doting wife. 

“I… am not actually sure,” Richie says. “I know it’s a lot of money. Enough to buy at least one boat, probably.”

“Well, that’s helpful,” Stan says, his eyes also fixed on the pencil Richie is tapping on his leg. “Tozier, you’ve outdone yourself.”

“Has he?” Ben mumbles. Bev nudges his shoulder with her own, and it makes him perk up a little when she whispers something in his ear.

“Staniel,” Richie says, focusing on only the parts of Stan’s sentence he wants to hear. “Would you vore the tiny two-inch man?”

Stan shrugs, as if the thought doesn’t bother him. “Why not? A hundred million is a hundred million.”

“Tiny two-inch man—vored!” Richie crows, throwing his pencil in the air. “The one-hundred million dollars goes to the one, the only, Stan the Man Uris!”

“This is gross,” Eddie says. “You guys are _gross_.”

“Eddie Spaghetti,” Richie says, with a rueful sigh, “My love, my darling, my cherry pie, Eds _fucking_ Kaspbrak…”

“Don’t call me Eds,” Eddie says, automatically.

At the same time, Bev and Mike say, “Don’t call me Eds,” in mocking high-pitched tones, without looking up from what they’re doing, which makes Richie throw his head back and laugh in that cackling way of his.

Even Ben is chucking a little when Eddie throws his friends a fake scowl. “You’re all jerks.”

“What about me?” Richie asks, batting his eyelashes at Eddie, who gives him a deadpan look.

“Especially you,” he says, turning back to his homework.

“My heart is broken,” Richie says. “Ben, did you hear that? Eddie Spaghetti Kaspbrak broke my heart.”

“I didn’t realize you had one,” Stan says. “Don’t you just run on Doritos and Adderall?”

“I resent that,” Richie says. “I resent that very much, and don’t think I’ll be forgetting this when Richmas rolls around.”

“What the fuck is Richmas?” Stan asks.

“Richie Christmas,” Richie says, standing up. “Where is my pencil?”

“You did a great job of expanding the words, and not so much telling us why exactly you butchered the name of a lovely, family-friendly holiday for your own personal use,” Stan says.

“What do you mean, ‘lovely’? You don’t even celebrate Christmas,” Mike says, looking up.

“Doesn’t mean I can’t join in on the festivities,” Stan says. “I plan on wearing every Christmas sweater I can get my hands on until Christmas.”

“It’s October,” Bill points out, but this goes unnoticed by everyone except Stan, who just pats his shoulder and tells him not to worry about it.

“I found it!” Richie yells, standing up with his pencil clutched in his hand. “Thank god, otherwise I would’ve had to beg a pencil off my French teacher, and shit would’ve gotten _messy_.”

“You d-don’t own any other pencils?” Bill asks.

“Nope,” Richie says. “Who do you think I am, _Eddie_?”

That’s cue for all the Losers to look at Eddie, whose face reddens under the scrutiny. 

“I mean,” Richie says, “he’s adorable,” this causes Eddie’s face to redden even more, “but I wouldn’t want to _be_ him.” He grabs Eddie into a hug from behind, crushing the smaller boy’s head into his chest, ignoring Eddie’s protest. “Look at this hair, it’s a disaster.”

“ _You’re_ one to talk,” Ben says, but Richie ignores him. 

“Cute, cute, cute,” Richie says, pinching Eddie’s cheeks, and Eddie shoves at him.

“Let go of me,” he says, his cheeks burning. “I swear to God,” he panics a little when Richie makes kissing noises at him, “come near me with that mouth and I will fucking _kill you dead_ —“

“Chill out, Spaghetti,” Richie says easily, releasing him.

Eddie’s face feels like fire, his hair is mussed, and his shirt’s ridden up a little, exposing his stomach. He tugs it down hurriedly, feeling the pointed not-stares from the rest of the group. 

All except for Richie, who just— _looks_ at Eddie. It’s not the way Ben looks at Bev, with slavish devotion. Nor is it the way Bill looks at Stan, soppy affection plain to anyone watching. 

Richie looks at him with _fire_ in his eyes, looks at Eddie like he’s something to savor, like he wants to make Eddie moan just to lick it from his mouth, like he wants to put his lips to Eddie’s and— 

Lust. Is it lust?

Eddie doesn’t know, but way Richie looks at him only makes his face burn harder, which makes Richie grin, slowly, before he winks, and Eddie thinks he may die of heart palpitations, which just makes him want the inhaler he no longer carries around with him.

This is only the first nail in Eddie Kaspbrak’s coffin.

 

* * *

 

When Richie climbs in his window, that night, Eddie braces himself for the _something_ different, _something_ that’s changed, and at first, the air is charged with that same weird feeling. 

But then Richie just says, in a muted tone of voice, because Sonia Kaspbrak is still downstairs, “Do you think, if you peeled an orange, shoved it up your ass, and clamped down, you could make orange juice?” and the moment’s gone.

“Beep, beep,” Eddie says, although now he’s wondering, too. 

“I was actually wondering,” Richie says, and Eddie shoves a hand up against Richie’s mouth. Richie sticks his tongue out and licks Eddie’s hand, and Eddie jumps back about five feet.

“That’s disgusting,” Eddie says.

“It’s not like I’m diseased,” Richie says, then waggles his eyebrows. “Or _am_ I?”

“Don’t make me regret unlocking my window,” Eddie says.

“You love me,” Richie points a finger at him.

“Take off your shoes,” Eddie says, by way of a response. Richie drops his shoes, unlaced and dirty, on the floor next to the window and climbs into Eddie’s bed, already yawning. Eddie tries not to wince at Richie’s shoes. They fall asleep in the same bed, exactly one foot apart and separated by a pillow.

Eddie wakes up in the middle of the night to find the pillow gone and Richie staring at him. He screws his eyes tightly shut.

“Too late, Spagheds,” Richie says. He doesn’t actually know how to whisper. As far as Eddie can tell, Richie’s version of a whisper is just talking quietly.

“That’s so bad,” Eddie says, opening his eyes. 

“I know,” Richie says, a note of pride in his voice. “That’s what makes it good.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Eddie says. “If you woke me up for this—“

“I didn’t wake you up,” Richie says, “You did that on your own.”

“Still,” Eddie says, “Staring at me in the middle of the night, you _know_ I’m gonna—“

“I was just thinking,” Richie says. 

“Don’t hurt yourself, Tozier,” Eddie says, and rolls over, trying to go back to sleep.

“Eddie?” Richie says, sounding timid, and that’s enough to make Eddie roll back around.

“What is it, Richie?” he asks. He hasn’t called Richie by his Christian name in at least months, doesn’t normally unless Richie is having a crisis, but Richie sounds like he might be having a crisis now.

Richie looks at him, his eyes shining in the moonlight, and Eddie thinks he might ask something incredibly serious before he asks, “How many Hot Wheels cars do you think you could fit up your ass?”

Immediately, Eddie sticks his foot out and kicks Richie off the bed. Richie falls to the floor with a surprisingly soft _thump_ , trying to keep his laughter under wraps. “It’s twenty-seven, by the way,” Eddie says, rolling over and leaving Richie on the floor. He feels the bed shake as Richie gropes his way back up and tries not to wince as the floor creaks. Richie flops beside him, at least six inches closer than before, all long legs and arms.

“Love you,” Richie says sleepily, and Eddie pauses, a little more awake, because Richie hasn’t said that to him since they were _seven_ at least.

“Love you too?” Eddie says cautiously. Richie beams.

“Cute, cute, cute,” he says, reaching out and pulling Eddie into his arms. “So cute. Did you know my best friend Eddie is the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen? _So_ cute. Even though he’s mean and pushes me off the bed.” He buries his nose in the top of Eddie’s head. “Love him to death.”

Eddie’s eyes are wide, searching for something, anything, through the darkness. Darkness. He’s thankful it’s dark. His cheeks are hot and he thinks he just might die and it’ll be all Richie’s fault.

In the morning, Richie acts like his usual self, obnoxious and loud and irritating. He waits behind Eddie’s porch until Eddie manages to escape his mother’s smothering grasp, and they bike to school together. Richie keeps up a running stream of lewd jokes the entire time, and it feels normal, until they get to school. The entire day is filled with a lot of _flirting_ coming from Richie—Eddie’s seen Richie’s flirting in action, but never on _himself_. It feels a lot like being in a spotlight, like being slowly scorched by a sunbeam. It’s disarming, ridiculous, and almost irresistible, which is weird because Eddie isn’t _gay_. He’s never even _looked_ at a guy that way before.

 _But_ , says a nasty voice in his head, _you’ve never looked at a_ girl _that way before, either, have you, Eddie?_

Eddie spends Thursday and Friday looking at everyone who crosses his path. He studies his chem partner’s cupid’s bow and weirds her out a little. He looks at the girl who sits in front of him in trig, watching as she flips her hair around. He makes intense eye contact with Bev during lunch, so much so that she puts her hand on his shoulder and asks if he’s okay.

He feels nothing.

He remembers a day, back when they were eleven or twelve, when they all had gone to the quarry to swim, and Bev had been lying on the rock, and all the boys had been staring at her. Eddie remembers feeling vaguely uncomfortable, and slightly awkward, in the way one feels when they’re not sure why the focus of attention is the focus of attention.

He switches tactics. He looks at his _other_ chem partner, Adrian, eyes tracing the curve of his jaw. He studies the boy who sits next to him in French, all hard lines and muscle. He looks at Richie, when Richie falls asleep in trig, and just watches him breathe. He watches and he watches and he watches, and he can’t tear his eyes away, for some reason.

He’s not sure what he’s realized. He’s not sure he wants to know.

Eddie doesn’t have time to worry about it, and Richie doesn’t get the chance to flirt with him on Saturday—that’s the day they go to the quarry, as a group, and Eddie knows that Richie would rather Die, capital D, than talk about intimate things in a group.

So Eddie is safe.  And it’s not like he was in any _danger_ , to begin with—he has to remind himself that Richie’s his best friend, and Richie flirts with _everybody_. If he can chalk it up to a shtick, it makes him feel a little less weird and empty—so that’s what he does.

They’re all at the quarry, and Bill has some weed, bought surreptitiously off Patrick Hockstetter. There’s enough for all of them, since Ben and Mike beg out. Richie shotguns with Beverly, blowing the smoke directly into her mouth, and Eddie laughs at Ben’s expression, chalking the strange tightening in his own chest up to his asthma reacting with the smoke in the air.

(Never mind that he doesn’t actually _have_ asthma.)

The joint comes around to Eddie and he takes a few hits, ignoring his nausea. He doesn’t feel much—he never does, unless he smokes an entire joint—but it’s slightly relaxing, and he can never bring himself to smoke that much anyway. He passes it to Stan, who passes it back to Bev. Bev is already giggly. She’s hanging on Ben’s arm while he tells her awful, terrible jokes, but she laughs at every single one of them. Mike is just having a good laugh at her expense, completely sober. Meanwhile, Bill and Richie are whispering intensely, sitting a little ways away from the group. Occasionally, Bill will make a small exploding sound with his mouth.

Stan is cuddly when he’s high; he curls up beside Eddie, his head in the smaller boy’s lap, and Eddie rakes his fingers through Stan’s hair, smiling when Stan sighs in contentment.

“Guys,” Bill says, accepting the joint, “You know what we should do?”

“Go swimming?” Richie asks. “Because we should—ha—we should go swimming.”

“Swimming!” Bev perks up at that, more than she already has. “Let’s go, what are we waiting for?”

“It’s eight at night, and also freezing,” Eddie says, his words lost on deaf ears, except for Ben, who already looks nervous. 

“We haven’t done that since, like, middle school,” Ben says.

“Come _on_ ,” Bev says, tugging at his arm. 

“Okay,” Ben relents. “Stan, how about you?”

Stan yawns and stretches. “Sure.”

Bev, of course, is the first one to jump in. She executes a remarkable swan dive, hitting the surface with barely a splash. She resurfaces, waving, and the Losers all collectively release a breath. 

Richie turns to survey the group, grinning. “Who’s next?”

“Not me,” Eddie says immediately. “Bill, you go.”

“Sure,” Bill says. He runs to the cliff, supremely confident, and jumps off. 

“Mike?” Richie asks. Mike holds out a hand to Ben, still visibly nervous, and they jump together. Stan dives in as well, almost as graceful as Beverly.

It’s just Richie and Eddie now, and Richie looks at him. “Eds, you jumping?”

“Don’t call me Eds,” Eddie says. “We haven’t done this since middle school. What if I die?”

“You won’t die,” Richie says. “I won’t allow it, Eds.”

“You can’t control that,” Eddie says. 

“Of course I can,” Richie says. “Is there anything I can’t do?”

“Brush your hair, apparently,” Eddie says. Richie looks more thrilled than anything else.

“Ooh, burn! That’s one to Eds Kaspbrak, two-hundred to Richie, and fifty to _Sonia Kaspbrak_ —“

Just to escape Richie talking about his mother again, Eddie jumps off the cliff. He hits the water with a large splash, and resurfaces, gasping a little bit. It’s not as cold as he thought it would be. The other Losers look at him closely.

“He’s alive,” Bev announces.

“No, shit,” Eddie grumbles, wiping water out of his eyes. 

“We’re chicken fighting,” Mike says. Just then, Richie jumps in, with a massive splash that sends a wave of water over all their heads.

“I call Spaghetti for my team,” Richie says instantly, already seeming to know what’s going on.

“Nope,” Eddie says. “I refuse.”

“You can’t refuse,” Richie says. “Them’s the rules.”

“ _What_ rules?” Eddie asks. “Who made them?”

“Me,” Richie says. “I made the rules.”

“Great,” Eddie says. “That makes me feel so much better about this game.”

“Hey, it’s my world,” Richie says, winking. “You’re just living in it.”

“If you guys are done flirting,” Stan says. “We have a chicken fight to put on.”

“Maybe I’m not done,” Richie challenges, at the same time that Eddie says, “I wasn’t flirting,” and Eddie rolls his eyes.

(He ends up on Richie’s shoulders anyway, Richie’s hair brushing the bottom of his stomach and his fingers gripping Eddie’s thighs tightly, and Eddie _feels_.)

 

* * *

 

Richie makes his way into Eddie’s bed.

“Won’t your parents worry?” Eddie asks, trying to gently hint that Richie should maybe leave.

“Oh, they go to sleep at eight and don’t wake up until six,” Richie says. He frowns. “Do you want me to go?”

Now that Richie says it, Eddie _doesn’t_ actually want him to go. Richie looks as if he might get up and leave, so Eddie crosses his arms and mumbles, “As long as you don’t keep me up snoring.” Richie’s face lights up, and he pulls Eddie into his chest and goes to sleep. Eddie is left holding onto Richie’s forearm.

Richie mumbles something, still lost in whatever dream world he’s in. Richie tenses more when he’s asleep. Sometimes his body will give an involuntary jerk, and Eddie will get worried even though he _knows_ it’s normal.

“Eddie,” Richie mumbles, and Eddie’s grip on Richie’s forearm tightens briefly, in surprise. Had Richie caught him staring? Eddie watches Richie’s face for a little longer, but he’s asleep, and doesn’t mumble anything else.

In the morning, Richie stretches and leaves through the window, like he always does, but the time, he presses a kiss to Eddie’s forehead. It’s brief and chaste, but that small touch sends a shock through his system.

When Richie immediately resumes flirting with him, Eddie lets himself wonder if maybe, possibly, this isn’t just another shtick of Richie’s but actual, genuine interest.

This idea scares him even more than the idea of it being a shtick. It terrifies him. 

He doesn’t go out of his way to _avoid_ Richie from that moment on, but makes it a personal point of his to not engage. 

Just until he’s a little less confused about… everything, he tells himself.

This strategy gets him absolutely nowhere. It gets him to meeting Bev on the bank of the Kenduskeag, that Thursday afternoon.

“You’ve been distant,” Bev says, “And I drew the short straw for the intervention.” She pats the ground next to her, the unspoken invitation making Eddie lurch forward, on legs that feel clumsier at just that moment. He sits down, the motion heavy.

She passes him a jar with some clear liquid, and assuming it’s vodka, Eddie takes a swig, only to immediately retch it back up.

“What the _fuck_?” He asks, feeling tears pierce his eyes.. “That tastes like—“

“—like rubbing alcohol,” Bev says, her eyes twinkling.

“Where the _fuck_ did you get fucking _moonshine_?” Eddie asks. He looks at the jar, then decides to take another drink, anyway. It smarts, but he manages to get it all down, despite the way his eyes are now streaming.

“Trade secret,” Bev winks, and Eddie decides to not ask questions he doesn’t want to know the answers to. He hands the jar back to her. He can already feel the moonshine settling in his stomach, warming him from the inside.

“What’s been up with you?” Bev asks, taking a gulp of the moonshine like it’s nothing. Eddie inwardly marvels at this ability.

“It’s nothing,” he says. Bev gives an unladylike snort, shoving the jar into his hands.

“Drink,” she says, and obediently, he does. “Now stop lying to me.” She shoves his shoulder, and it’s all he can do to not drop the jar.

“I don’t know,” Eddie says, after a beat. He stares at the jar, and decides, if he’s going to have this conversation with Bev, he needs to be, if not drunk, not quite sober, so he takes a significantly larger swig, which is a mistake. Around the tears in his eyes, he can see Bev looking distinctly unimpressed.

“ _Fuck_ , Bev, I don’t know,” he says in frustration, setting the jar down harsher than he means to. The contents of it slop around, but Bev seems unconcerned about the jar, so he continues. “I think I might be—“ he looks around before saying, “ _gay_? I don’t—I mean, how can I even know for sure, I’ve never even had a girlfriend, I’ve never—“

Bev is frowning now, which he takes as a bad sign. 

“I mean, _fuck_ , Bev, what am I supposed to do? My mom’s gonna kill me, and I’m not even _sure_ , I’ve never even kissed a girl or anything—“

“Hey,” Bev interrupts him. “Eddie, shut up for a second.”

Eddie’s mouth closes like it’s on a hinge, and he looks at her. 

She raises an eyebrow. “Think about kissing me, right now.”

“That’s,” Eddie pauses. “I don’t want to do that. But what if that’s because I just see you as a sister?”

“I guess you don’t know for sure based on me,” she concedes. “But have you thought about kissing _any_ girl?”

“Um, no,” Eddie says. “I mean, do you know how many germs are in the average mouth? _Too_ many. My mom says you can get all kinds of diseases just by kissing—“

Bev gives him a flat look.

“Right,” Eddie says, “That’s something I learned, to not listen to what my mom says about these things. I learned that three years ago.” He fights to not hyperventilate, and Bev places a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“Breathe,” Bev says. “Four counts in, hold your breath, eight counts out.” She counts quietly. “I’ve got you.”

“You’ve got me,” Eddie repeats, his breathing a little ragged. “I’m okay. I’m okay.”

Bev waits until Eddie has a handle on himself, then leans forward and kisses him.

It’s entirely chaste, and very short; she pulls away and leaves Eddie feeling… nothing. He doesn’t feel anything. Getting kissed by Bev feels just like being pushed squarely on the mouth. 

He looks at Bev, the planes of her face just as intimately familiar to him as his own. He substitutes her for a different girl—any girl, just cycles her face through those of girls he knows, and still feels nothing, tries to imagine it was any of them kissing him, and feels—nothing. He feels slightly repulsed, even. Then a little guilty, but no less repulsed.

Bev looks back at him. She hasn’t revealed to him anything he hasn’t already known. She’s just helped him confirm it.

“I think,” Eddie looks at his hands. “I think I’m gay, Bev.”

“You’re gay, Eddie,” she says. 

“ _And_ you were my first kiss,” he says. 

“Oh, shit, really?” She covers her mouth with one hand. “Sorry, I didn’t realize I’d be your first kiss, otherwise I wouldn’t have kissed you. It’s just—“

“I’m sixteen, I know,” he says. Bev laughs.

“Yeah. Sorry,” she says.

“And you’re okay with this? The whole… gay thing?” he asks, the question half-joking but also nervous.

Bev just smiles and offers him the moonshine. “Are you going to tell the boys?”

The boys. Bill, Stan, Mike, Ben. _Richie_.

“I guess I have to?” Eddie asks. He takes another large gulp. His head is already getting fuzzy. He should probably stop drinking. 

“You don’t _have to_ do anything you don’t want to,” Bev says. “But I can almost guarantee they’ll all be okay with it, and you probably _should_ tell them.”

“I don’t think I want to tell them yet,” Eddie says.

“Okay,” she says.

“But thank you,” he says hurriedly. “I mean it, thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” Bev says. Her smile turns teasing. “After all, I drew the short straw.”

“Everyone noticed?” Eddie asks, feeling his face redden.

“Of course we did,” Bev reaches over and pinches his cheek. “They love you, Eddie. _I_ love you.”

“I love you, too,” Eddie says, the sentiment warming him more than the moonshine. Bev scoots closer and lays her head on his shoulder, and Eddie feels a rush of affection for her. They sit there, passing the moonshine back and forth. Finally, when Eddie thinks he’s probably drunk, Bev stands, a little unsteady on her feet.

“Time to get home,” she says, with a laugh. “Eddie’s bedtime.”

“You’re drunker than I am,” Eddie says, also getting to his feet. He looks at the jar, and over half is still left. “How much did you drink?”

“Not too much,” Bev says, giggling in earnest now. “Only a little—whoops!” She slips on a rock. Just in time, Eddie catches her wrist.

“Whoa,” he says. “Maybe I should take you home.”

“Buy me dinner first,” Bev nearly sings, and Eddie rolls his eyes.

“I think Ben would kill me,” he says. “That, or wish us all the best, with that puppy dog look in his eyes. I like that scenario less.”

“Me, too,” Bev says, her voice stumbling a little over the _me_. 

Eddie walks her home. It’s already dark, despite being only six. The temperature is already starting to plummet, clouds gathering in the dark sky above them. Bev trips over rocks, her own feet. For how graceful she is when high, she’s much less so when drunk. Finally, he gets her tucked in her own bed, snug and warm, and escapes out the window, just as it starts to snow.

It snows on him the whole way home, and he’s greeted with a note on the fridge from his mother, telling him she’ll be out tonight. He knows the drill. She’ll stay out for most of the night and finally get home at midnight, a little giggly from too much wine, and fall asleep on the couch. Richie doesn’t show up in his window that night, and Eddie has time to be a little thankful about that, because he goes to bed, still drunk, and wakes up with a mild hangover. 

He meets Bev’s eye in the hallway, in between first and second period, and her gaze is so sad and sympathetic that Eddie has to look away.

 

* * *

 

Eddie can hear the music from the party two blocks away. The entire world seems to vibrate as he walks up to the door. He reaches for the doorknob and his vision actually shakes a little, like the sound waves themselves are warning him not to go in, that this is a _really bad idea_.

It’s a cool Friday night, and some idiot has thrown a party in the old Neibolt house. Eddie gives a sidelong glance to Richie, who’s nearly bouncing in his impatience. 

Eddie considers the doorknob. It’s rusty. Probably everything inside this house is rusty. He looks up at the windows, half of which are broken, and decides that a little party never killed anybody. Against his better judgement, he opens the door. 

All his senses are immediately assaulted. The air is so dramatically warm in the room that he feels the urge to step back outside. Richie clearly has no similar qualms, stepping into the room with his characteristic confidence. He turns to Eddie and yells something, which Eddie can only really figure out by reading his lips, _you going to be okay on your own?_

 _No_ , Eddie wants to say, but nods instead. Richie grins, pats his head, and takes off with (presumably) a loud whooping cheer. 

He looks around. This is exactly the type of party his mother warned him about. If she saw him here, she’d have a heart attack. The living room is a gyrating, vibrating mass of teenagers, and the room smells like spilled beer and sweat. Eddie can’t even _guess_ at how he’d even begin to get through the crowd, and the little furniture lying around is either occupied or broken. 

He takes a deep breath and plunges in.

His memory fragments from there; he thinks he sees Bev and Ben making out once, sees Richie with his head thrown back in laughter, walks in on a couple having sex. He drinks one warm beer, and another, and stops at two because his head is already getting fuzzy and he doesn’t trust himself to get drunk, not _here_ at least. He thinks he joins the dancing mob, but he’s not sure, and at one point he’s in the bathroom with his back to the door, and then he blinks and he’s in the kitchen, which is no less loud. 

And then there’s a boy. Eddie’s never seen him before in his life, but this other boy looks like he goes to the other high school across town, the one with more money. His jeans look expensive, Eddie notes, the music is giving him a headache. The boy is smiling at him and holding out a half-empty cup and Eddie downs it, the warm beer sliding down his throat. There’s no one else in the room they’re in, it’s quiet by this party’s standards, Eddie can at least hear his voice…

They must talk, the other boy must say _something_ , because then they’re kissing. He’s kissing a boy upstairs at the biggest party of the year. Hands run up his arms, down his sides, into his hair.

 _Oh_ , Eddie thinks, dizzy. _Oh_.

It’s his first kiss, and he’s not sure what to do with his tongue, or his hands, but the other boy seems experienced enough, and Eddie’s backed against a wall. (He’s not thinking about germs, or disease.) There’s a distinct smell, one of cologne and aftershave, and the other boy tastes like beer. Eddie fists his hands in a soft shirt and feels muscles tense under his fingers. Eddie’s not sure how long the kiss lasts, until ten, twenty, thirty minutes later the boy breaks away.

“That was…”

“Can’t happen again,” Eddie says. The boy, reading the room, nods and shrugs and doesn’t seem upset at all. He doesn’t even know this boy’s name, Eddie realizes, and he’s not sure if he wants to ask.

“Well, hey, if you see me at another party…” his voice trails off suggestively, and Eddie laughs until the door closes and then falls silent.

Part of him wants to go find Bev and collapse into her arms and blurt out the whole story in one breath of _Ikissedaboyatthisparty_ —the other part of him wants to crawl into the dusty bed and die. All of him doesn’t want the other guys to find out. Most of him is leery of telling even Bev. 

“Hey, is this room occupi—whoa, are you crying? _Eddie_?”

Eddie turns his head. It’s Richie, of all people. Eddie doesn’t want to look past him, afraid of what or who he’ll see, but Richie seems to be completely alone.

“I swear,” Richie says, his hand balling into a fist, “I’ll pummel anyone who—“

“No,” Eddie says, shaking his head. “I’m not crying. Why would you even think I was crying?”

“I thought I saw…” Richie’s voice trails off as he crosses the room. “Never mind.”

“I’m good,” Eddie says.

“So’s your mom,” Richie says. 

“What the fuck?” Eddie’s eyebrow furrows. “That doesn’t…” It takes him a moment, but as soon as he comprehends it he kicks Richie in the shin. Richie only laughs.

“Why’d you need this room?” Eddie asks. “You’re alone.”

“If I say I wanted to take a nap…” Richie trails off. 

“You’re incorrigible,” Eddie says. “Why didn’t you just go home?”

Richie puts his head down and mumbles something along the lines of “waiting for you,” and despite himself there’s a flutter in Eddie’s stomach. 

“Stupid,” Eddie says. “Let’s go home. Did you drink?”

Richie holds up two fingers, pinched closely together, and leans on Eddie on the walk home. He smells sharp, like tequila and citrus and sweat, and if Eddie closes his eyes, he can almost imagine the last hour never happened.

“What _were_ you doing in an empty room?” Richie asks.

“Um,” Eddie says, which is an answer in and of itself. 

Richie hums and falls silent. Try as he might, Eddie’s never been able to quite tell what Richie is thinking when he goes quiet. It doesn’t happen often enough for him to get a reading. 

“So,” Richie says, a little _too_ casually, “Gettin’ some, huh?”

Eddie shrugs. It feels almost like a dream, really, and Eddie would mark it off as a dream, if his lips weren’t still tingling. 

“Who’s the lucky girl?” Richie asks. Eddie considers this question and just feels empty.

“That’s a need-to-know question,” he says. 

“Okay,” Richie says, pulling back a little, and now Eddie just feels _bad_ , even though there’s literally no reason for him to feel bad. 

“What have you done tonight?” Eddie asks, trying to change the topic.

Richie shrugs. “Danced. Drinks. Body shots.”

“Body shots,” Eddie says.

“Body shots,” Richie repeats. 

Eddie thinks about Richie licking salt off somebody’s stomach and feels a little sick. He doesn’t want to analyze that feeling too deeply, so after he drops Richie off at his house, he just goes straight to bed and hopes he’ll forget about everything in the morning.

 

* * *

 

He doesn’t really forget, per se, but life goes on. 

Richie doesn’t show up in his bed for a whole three weeks, doesn’t talk to him in class, barely acknowledges him when they’re hanging out in a group. Thanksgiving comes and goes, with barely a word from Richie, and Eddie’s just started to mark their friendship off as a lost cause when Richie shows up in his window again.

“Why, hello, there,” Eddie says, crossing his arms. He doesn’t move out of the way.

“Doctor K,” he says, in one of those terrible voices of his. “I am in desperate need of your help.”

“Don’t,” Eddie says. “Tell me why I should let you in.”

“Because you love—“

“ _Don’t_ ,” Eddie says. Something in his voice must snap Richie into focus, because he shifts awkwardly where he’s perched on the window sill. “You can start by telling me why you’ve been avoiding me. I’m assuming it has something to do with the party.”

“Maybe,” Richie mumbles. “Damn it, Eddie, will you let me in for this?”

Eddie moves out of the way. Richie half-climbs, half-falls inside. 

“Maybe I was a little jealous,” Richie says, all in one breath. It takes Eddie a second to comprehend what Richie has just said.

“What?”

“I was a little jealous,” Richie says. “I just didn’t… I was afraid…” He stops there. Eddie smiles wryly and then takes Richie’s hand, making him jump a little.

“Take off your shoes,” he says, “and let’s go to sleep. I’ve had a long day.”

Relief lights up Richie’s face like the sky, and Eddie lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. Richie takes his shoes off and places them carefully in a corner, climbing into bed.

Eddie’s in Richie’s arms before he can even process getting ready for bed. Before he can even process that Richie was _jealous_ , and what it means.

He doesn’t want to analyze that feeling, either.

He thinks that might be happening a little too much for comfort.

 

* * *

 

“…so this year, I decided Secret Santa would be a good idea!” Bev says, beaming. She’s holding a hat with a bunch of folded slips of paper in it, and if Eddie turns his head a little, he can see “-ke” printed neatly on one of the slips.

“…Secret Santa?” Eddie asks. 

“Have you never heard of Secret Santa?” Stan asks. “Even I’ve heard of it, and I’m—“

“—Jewish, we know,” Bill says, rolling his eyes. “D-Do you have to wear a Christmas sweater every d-d-day? You d-don’t even celebrate Chr-Christmas.”

“Yes,” Stan says proudly. On his sweater, Rudolph’s nose flashes, as if in agreement.

“Where did you even get that sweater?” Mike asks.

“That’s for me to know and for none of you to find out,” Stan says. 

“ _Secret Santa_ ,” Bev says, a little more forcefully. “I have names in this hat. You will pick a name, and you will not tell _anyone_ who it is—or else.” She glares at everyone, and they all shrink a little bit.

The hat comes around to Eddie and he picks a name at random, not fretting about it too much. He unfolds the paper. He gets Stan—he smiles a little, because Bev’s handwriting is so distinctive; he’s willing to bet she dots her ‘i’s with hearts—and thinks, privately, that this will be easy. 

Richie is smiling secretively to himself. Ben looks thrilled. Eddie is thankful to notice that no one seems disappointed, although Stan is mouthing some words to himself in evident confusion.

On their way home, Richie tries to convince Eddie to share his Secret Santa.

“Not a chance, Trashmouth,” Eddie says, tucking the little slip of paper into his pocket. “You’ll find out next Friday with everyone else.”

Friday dawns, and Eddie knows he’s going to tell his friends today. He hadn’t thought about it at all, just woke up and— _today seems like a good day to tell my friends I’m gay, doesn’t it_? Even with the decision under his belt, he frets about it the whole day. Richie puts an inhaler in his hand and leaves it there, which helps a little bit, and then cools it on the flirting, which helps more. 

By the time _after school_ rolls around, Eddie is terrified, and thinks he may work himself into a nervous breakdown if he doesn’t figure out a way to calm himself down _soon_. Richie tries to soothe him, serious for once, stroking the hair back from his face and gripping his hands tightly.

“Hey,” Richie says. “You’re going to be okay. Just tell us whatever it is you’re going to tell us.” Eddie looks around the circle, filled with people he loves, and sucks in a deep breath.

“I think I’m gay,” he forces out. _See, that wasn’t so bad_.

It’s notable that not one of the boys looks surprised. Mike pulls him into a hug, and Ben pats him on the shoulder.

“I’m bi,” Bill says, shrugging.

“I’m gay,” Stan says, meeting Bill’s surprised eye almost _too_ casually. Bev hides a snicker behind her hand. 

“I told you,” Bev says. “None of them care.”

Eddie turns to find Richie looking at him, with a expression akin to that when someone punches you in the gut. Richie wipes it from his face all too quickly.

“I’m bi,” Richie says carefully. “Were you worried about what we’d say?”

“A little,” Eddie says. Bev elbows him, and he admits, “A lot.”

“Ridiculous,” Richie scoffs. All tension is gone, and Eddie is wondering if he’d just imagined it. “Can you believe this kid?” He grabs Eddie into another chokehold and gives him a noogie.

“Ow,” Eddie deadpans. “Get the fuck off me.”

“This kid,” Richie says, in an exaggerated British accent. “Such a bloody buffoon, he is.” He takes Eddie by the shoulders and shoves him into Bill, who immediately opens his arms and gives Eddie a hug.

“I know,” Eddie grumbles. “I was dumb, can we all stop now?”

“Sure,” Bev says, and Richie stops talking, which is a blessing. “Bill?”

“My house awaits,” Bill says, somewhat sarcastically.

Eddie doesn’t have any words to describe Bill’s house other than _cozy_. There’s a fire already burning in the fireplace of the basement, and Bev’s moonshine is out in full force, although Bill keeps his eyes on the basement door. 

They place gifts under the tree. Stan opens his Secret Santa gift from Eddie, labelled ‘An Abomination Upon God, to Stanley Uris’. He starts to laugh almost as soon as he opens it. It’s a blue sweater with a lit up menorah on it. Emblazoned across the top of the sweater are the words ‘It’s Lit.’

“I’m going to wear this right now,” Stan says, pulling off his other sweater. He folds it neatly before tugging Eddie’s sweater over his chest. “It’s beautiful, thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Eddie says, grinning. “I thought you’d like it.”

He’s just taken a swig of the moonshine—he thinks he might be getting the hang of it—when he feels a tap on the shoulder.

It’s Richie. Of course it is. What else would be dramatically satisfying?

“Are you my Secret Santa?” Eddie asks.

“Nope,” Richie says, popping the ‘p’. “I just wanted to give you your present. And, at the same time, wondered if you wanted to come outside with me for a smoke break.”

Eddie looks around the room, at the small pile of presents under the tree, one of which still has his name on them and sits unclaimed. Bill and Stan are having a quiet conversation in the corner. Mike, Ben, and Bev are all animatedly discussing something or other on the couches—Bev is curled into Ben’s side. He looks at all this, then looks back at Richie.

“I could use a smoke,” he decides, following Richie out.

“Not going to have an asthma attack on me, eh, Doctor K?” Richie asks, wiggling his eyebrows, and Eddie rolls his eyes.

“You _know_ I don’t really have asthma,” Eddie says. 

Richie sits on the back step and lights the cigarette in one sharp motion, inhaling the smoke with an almost thankful air. The tension leaves his shoulders. It’s a small, but calming routine, one that Eddie watches near weekly.

“Give it here,” Eddie says, holding out his hand. Richie huffs, but hands it over, and Eddie takes a drag, slow and purposeful.

“Since when did you smoke?” Richie asks, taking back the cigarette with a faint air of distaste.

“Since I started drinking and getting high,” Eddie says, pale blue smoke curling from his mouth, and shrugs. “You do all three of these things more than I do, what are you going to do about it?”

“Nothing,” Richie says, “It’s just kind of funny.”

“Funny how?” Eddie demands.

“Thirteen year old Eddie would’ve died if he’d known that seventeen year old Eddie smoked,” Richie says, exhaling. 

“Thirteen year old Eddie would’ve died at a lot of things seventeen year old Eddie does.”

“Gets high and kisses boys,” Richie says. “What a life.”

“The dream life,” Eddie says. “You said you had a gift for me?”

“Oh, yeah,” Richie blinks. “Um…” He rummages around in the pockets of his jacket, far too light for the weather, before coming up with a small, wrapped package. “Here.”

Eddie takes it. It’s plain white tissue paper, delicately folded around something small. He looks up to see Richie watching him nervously. He slides one finger under the tape affixing the tissue paper to itself and rips.

Inside the tissue paper rests a little enamel pin. It’s shaped like—of all things, an inhaler.

“Do you like it?” Richie stumbles over his words a little. Eddie just stares at the pin. “It’s just because—“ He trails off, seemingly unable to find the words.

Eddie affixes the pin to his collar. “It’s cute,” he says, because it is, but it also _means_ something to him, and he knows that Richie knows it, too.

“Good,” Richie says, relaxing. He takes a drag off the cigarette and stubs it out on the concrete, throwing the butt into the bushes. He kisses Eddie’s cheek, lingering a little bit. The smell of cigarettes is sharp in Eddie’s nose, and Richie’s lips are warm. It almost burns a little, against Eddie’s now-freezing cheek, and by the time Eddie’s processed what just happened Richie’s already gone, back inside. 

It's a little longer before Eddie musters the will to stand up and head in after him.

 

* * *

 

Something changes.

Richie climbs in his window three nights a week and leaves in the morning. They hang out with their friends, same as always. Occasionally Eddie will catch Richie staring at him, with something burning in his eyes.

Eddie always looks away first.

Life goes on. Bev and Ben get together, in a dramatic fashion, which surprises no one. Mike gets a girlfriend who lives in the next town over, which surprises everyone.

(“She’s a farm girl,” Mike says, a little defensively.

“I’m sure we’ll all love her,” Eddie assures him. “Right, everyone?” His voice leaves no room for argument, not that anyone would argue anyway.)

There’s a day when all the Losers save Richie and Eddie are out sick. “Let’s go to the Barrens,” Richie says, after school.

“What, just the two of us?” Eddie asks. Richie shrugs.

“Sure, why not? Everyone else had the bad taste to get sick,” he scoffs. “Losers.”

“Us, too,” says Eddie.

“Yeah,” Richie agrees. “Us, too. Besides, I want to talk to you about something.”

Richie is quiet on their way, which is out-of-character for him; normally he’s chattering the whole way, making bad jokes and bad puns. Once, Eddie yells, behind him, “What’s wrong with you?” and Richie’s only response is an _awful_ mom joke. It’s not even remotely up to par with his usual standards.

Eddie jumps off his bike and immediately wheels around to face Richie. “What’s going on?” He demands, possibly a little harsher than he means to, but he’s _worried_ now. “You’re never this—“ He falters, because Richie takes a step towards him, then another, until Eddie is all but backed up into a tree.

His heart racing, he opens his mouth to say something, and closes it again, because the small motion has drawn Richie’s eyes to his mouth. “What…” He starts to say.

“Shh,” Richie shushes him. Eddie blinks, hard, his eyelashes fluttering. There’s something about the gleam in Richie’s eyes that makes Eddie very uneasy. Maybe it’s their proximity, the relative darkness of their surroundings, but the way Richie is looking at him makes his skin itch. The places where Richie’s fingers brush against his arm burn. 

“Richie,” Eddie whispers. He sees Richie’s eyes widen a little, imperceptibly, sees his throat bob as he swallows. “Richie,” Eddie says again. “I—“

He’s cut off as Richie kisses him, hard. 

Eddie’s world explodes.

Richie kisses like he talks, random and intense. Eddie feels warmth spread through his body, all the way down to his toes. He fists his hands in the cloth of Richie’s shirt, pulls him closer. His breath hitches when Richie presses a kiss to his pulse point, and moans when Richie nips the skin under his ear. Richie presses their mouths back together, and everywhere Richie touches sears like a brand on Eddie’s skin.

“Do you know,” Richie says, pulling back, his breathing ragged, “How long I’ve wanted to do that?”

Eddie only stares up at him, lips slightly parted.

“It doesn’t really matter,” Richie says. “Years, I guess. I just—I’ve been in love with you for years.” Eddie shakes his head. 

“So all this time…” he says.  Richie smiles sheepishly. 

“I tried to keep it a secret,” he says. “Did it work?” Eddie snorts at that, a genuine laugh bubbling up.

“ _Did you keep it a secret_ ,” he says. “Are you serious? This has been the _worst_ secret keeping in the history of, like, fucking _ever_.”

Richie pouts, which only makes the situation seem more ridiculous than it already is.

“You’re…” Eddie trails off, and then laughs. “You’re fucking ridiculous, Tozier.”

“Guess that means I’m going to have to break things off with your mom,” Richie says. “She’s going to be really disappointed.”

“Beep fucking beep,” Eddie says. “Try not to spoil a moment as soon as you create it, why don’t you?”

“What would the fun in that be?” Richie asks.

“Does this mean,” Eddie says, “Does this mean we’re dating?”

“Do you…” Richie pauses. “Want it to mean we’re dating?”

“I don’t know,” Eddie admits. “We’re…”

“Richie and Eddie,” Richie says.

“Why is your name first?” Eddie asks. He’s (mostly) joking.

“Eddie and Richie, then,” Richie says. 

“I… I know I want you in my life,” Eddie says. It feels like a major admission, a betrayal of the _bottle-it-up_ person he’s been all his life, but Richie makes him feel so… _ungrounded_. “I just… a label would feel…”

“Have we transcended labels?” Richie asks, in a voice so dramatic Eddie has to laugh. “It doesn’t matter,” he says. His voice is so earnest, and his eyes so fond that Eddie almost wants to look away. “I’m going to love you either way.”

“Do I get no choice in the matter?” Eddie says.

“I think you’ve made your choice rather clear,” Richie says, in the most terrible English accent Eddie’s ever heard.

Eddie kisses him, to shut him up, and Richie’s fingers curl around the back of Eddie’s neck, pulling him closer.

It’s like sunshine, like rain. It’s glorious.


End file.
